John Barleycorn: A Ballad
There was three kings unto the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.
But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.
The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.
The sober Autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he bagan to fail.
His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.
They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.
They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.
They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.
And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.
'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy;
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
John Barleycorn
There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.
But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.
The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.
The sober Autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.
His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.
They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned him o'er and o'er.
They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.
They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.
And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.
'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy;
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!
poem by Robert Burns (1782)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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John Barleycorn
There were three men, came out of the west,
Their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow:
John barleycorn must die!
Well, theyve ploughed, theyve sown, theve harrowed him in.
Threw clouds upon his head.
Till these three men were satisfied.
John barleycorn was dead.
Theyve let him lie for a long long time,
Till the rains from heaven did fall.
And little sir john sprang up his head
And so amazed them all.
They let him fly till the midsummers day,
Till he looked both pale and wan, oh,
Then little sir john has grown a long long beard
And so became a man.
They have hired men with the scythes so sharp.
To cut him off at the knee,
They rolled and they tied him around the waist,
Serving him most him barbarously.
They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
To prick him to the heart.
And the loader he has served him worse than that,
For hes bound him to the cart.
Well, theyve wheeled him round and round the field,
Till they came onto a barn.
And there they made their solemn oath,
Concerning a barleycorn.
They hired men with the crab tree sticks
To split him skin from bone, yeah,
But the miller he has served him worst and bad
For he ground him between two stones.
Well theres beer all in the barrel
And brandy in the glass,
But little old sir john with his nut-brown bowl
Proved the strongest man at last.
John barleycorn, throw him up, throw him up!
Now the huntsman, he cant hunt the fox,
Nor loudly blow his horn
And the tinker he cant mend his pots
Without john barleycorn,
John barleycorn, john barleycorn,
Barleycorn, barleycorn
John barleycorn, john barleycorn.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cellar Door
By the old tavern door on the causey there lay
A hogshead of stingo just rolled from a dray,
And there stood the blacksmith awaiting a drop
As dry as the cinders that lay in his shop;
And there stood the cobbler as dry as a bun,
Almost crackt like a bucket when left in the sun.
He'd whetted his knife upon pendil and hone
Till he'd not got a spittle to moisten the stone;
So ere he could work--though he'd lost the whole day--
He must wait the new broach and bemoisten his clay.
The cellar was empty, each barrel was drained
To its dregs--and Sir John like a rebel remained
In the street--for removal too powerful and large
For two or three topers to take into charge.
Odd zooks, said a gipsey, with bellows to mend,
Had I strength I would just be for helping a friend
To walk on his legs: but a child in the street
Had as much power as he to put John on his feet.
Then up came the blacksmith: Sir Barley, said he,
I should just like to storm your old tower for a spree;
And my strength for your strength and bar your renown
I'd soon try your spirit by cracking your crown.
And the cobbler he tuckt up his apron and spit
In his hands for a burster--but devil a bit
Would he move--so as yet they made nothing of land;
For there lay the knight like a whale in the sand.
Said the tinker: If I could but drink of his vein
I should just be as strong and as stubborn again.
Push along, said the toper, the cellar's adry:
There's nothing to moisten the mouth of a fly.
Says the host, We shall burn out with thirst, he's so big.
There's a cag of small swipes half as sour as a wig.
In such like extremes, why, extremes will come pat;
So let's go and wet all our whistles with that.
Says the gipsey, May I never bottom a chair
If I drink of small swipes while Sir John's lying there.
And the blacksmith he threw off his apron and swore
Small swipes should bemoisten his gullet no more:
Let it out on the floor for the dry cock-a-roach--
And he held up his hammer with threatens to broach
Sir John in his castle without leave or law
And suck out his blood with a reed or a straw
Ere he'd soak at the swipes--and he turned him to start,
Till the host for high treason came down a full quart.
Just then passed the dandy and turned up his nose:
They'd fain have him shove, but he looked at his clothes
And nipt his nose closer and twirled his stick round
And simpered, Tis nuisance to lie on the ground.
But Bacchus, he laughed from the old tavern sign,
Saying, Go on, thou shadow, and let the sun shine.
Then again they all tried, and the tinker he swore
That the hogshead had grown twice as heavy or more.
Nay nay, said the toper, and reeled as he spoke,
We're all getting weak, that's the end of the joke.
The ploughman came up and cut short his old tune,
Hallooed 'woi' to his horses and though it was June
Said he'd help them an hour ere he'd keep them adry;
Well done, said the blacksmith with hopes running high;
He moves, and, by jingo, success to the plough!
Aye aye, said the cobbler, we'll conquer him now.
The hogshead rolled forward, the toper fell back,
And the host laughed aloud as his sides they would crack
To see the old tinker's toil make such a gap
In his coat as to rend it from collar to flap.
But the tinker he grumbled and cried Fiddle-dee!
This garment hath been an old tenant with me;
And a needle and thread with a little good skill
When I've leisure will make it stand more weathers still.
Then crack went his breeks from the hip to the knee
With his thrusting--no matter; for nothing cared he.
So long as Sir John rolled along to the door,
He's a chip of our block, said the blacksmith, and swore;
And as sure as I live to drive nails in a shoe
He shall have at my cost a full pitcher or two.
And the toper he hiccuped--which hindered an oath--
So long as he'd credit, he'd pitcher them both.
But the host stopt to hint when he'd ordered the dray
Sir Barleycorn's order was purchase and pay.
And now the old knight is imprisoned and ta'en
To waste in the tavern man's cellar again.
And now, said the blacksmith, let forfeits come first
For the insult swipes offered, or his hoops I will burst.
Here it is, my old hearties--Then drink your thirst full,
Said the host, for the stingo is worth a strong pull.
Never fear for your legs if they're broken to-day;
Winds only blow straws, dust, and feathers away.
But the cask that is full, like a giant he lies,
And giants alone can his spirits capsize.
If he lies in the path, though a king's coming bye,
John Barleycorn's mighty and there he will lie.
Then the toper sat down with a hiccup and felt
If he'd still an odd coin in his pocket to melt,
And he made a wry face, for his pocket was bare.
--But he laughed and danced up, What, old boy, are you there?
When he felt that a stiver had got to his knee
Through a hole in his fob, and right happy was he.
Says the tinker, I've brawled till no breath I have got
And not met with twopence to purchase a pot.
Says the toper, I've powder to charge a long gun,
And a stiver I've found when I thought I'd got none;
So helping a thirsty old friend in his need
Is my duty--take heart, thou art welcome indeed.
Then the smith with his tools in Sir John made a breach,
And the toper he hiccuped and ended his speech;
And pulled at the quart, till the snob he declared
When he went to drink next that the bottom was bared.
No matter for that, said the toper, and grinned;
I had but a soak and neer rested for wind.
That's the law, said the smith, with a look rather vexed,
But the quart was a forfeit; so pay for the next.
Thus they talked of their skill and their labour till noon
When the sober man's toil was exactly half done,
And there the plough lay--people hardly could pass
And the horses let loose polished up the short grass
And browsed on the bottle of flags lying there,
By the gipsey's old budget, for mending a chair.
The miller's horse tied to the old smithy door
Stood stamping his feet, by the flies bitten sore,
Awaiting the smith as he wanted a shoe;
And he stampt till another fell off and made two:
Till the miller, expecting that all would get loose,
Went to seek him and cursed him outright for a goose;
But he dipt his dry beak in the mug once or twice
And forgot all his passion and toil in a trice.
And the flybitten horse at the old smithy post
Might stamp till his shoes and his legs they were lost.
He sung his old songs and forgot his old mill--
Blow winds high or low, she might rest her at will.
And the cobbler, in spite of his bustle for pelf,
Left the shop all the day to take care of itself.
And the toper who carried his house on his head,
No wife to be teazing, no bairns to be fed,
Would sit out the week or the month or the year
Or a life-time so long as he'd credit for beer.
The ploughman he talked of his skill as divine,
How he could plough thurrows as straight as a line;
And the blacksmith he swore, had he but the command,
He could shoe the king's hunter the best in the land;
And the cobbler declared, was his skill but once seen,
He should soon get an order for shoes from the queen.
But the tinker he swore he could beat them all three,
For gi' me a pair of old bellows, says he,
And I'll make them roar out like the wind in a storm
And make them blow fire out of coal hardly warm.
The toper said nothing but wished the quart full
And swore he could toss it all off at a pull.
Have one, said the tinker; but wit was away,
When the bet was to bind him he'd nothing to pay.
And thus in the face of life's sun-and-shower weather
They drank, bragged, and sung, and got merry together.
The sun he went down--the last gleam from his brow
Flung a smile of repose on the holiday plough;
The glooms they approached, and the dews like a rain
Fell thick and hung pearls on the old sorrel mane
Of the horse that the miller had brought to be shod,
And the morning awoke, saw a sight rather odd--
For a bit of the halter still hung at the door,
Bit through by the horse now at feed on the moor;
And the old tinker's budget lay still in the weather,
While all kept on singing and drinking together.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet: Dr John Celes
John Celes’ Rock is one that seems to grow,
Of composite make-up, from mole to hill;
The neighborhood has all now come to know;
This Rock will grow into mountain still!
Just as the Rock comes onto view of all,
Its density becomes greater each day;
No weather change can make this Rock to fall;
But if it should, ’twill come in God’s own way.
The Rock will get its due respect some day!
They will erect a monument for him;
His Indian brothers will feel very gay;
No more, the literary sun will be dim.
John Celes’ work will shake the world one day!
His voice will thunder in the mighty way!
16-7-2001
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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John Barley-Corn, My Foe
John Barley-corn, my foe, John,
The song I have to sing
Is not in praise of you, John,
E'en though you are a king.
Your subjects they are legion, John,
I find where'er I go:
They wear your yoke upon their necks,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
By your despotic sway
The people of our country, John,
Are suffering to-day.
You lay the lash upon their backs;
Yet willingly they go
And pay allegiance at the polls,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
You've broken many a heart,
And caused the bitter tear, John,
From many an eye to start,
The widow and the fatherless
From pleasant homes to go,
And lead a life of sin and shame,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
May Heaven speed the hour,
When Temperance shall wear the crown
And Rum shall lose its power;
When from the East unto the West
The people all shall know
Their greatest curse has been removed,
John Barley-Corn, my foe!
poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Forgotten
Lords of the Nursery
Wait in a row,
Five on the high wall,
And four on the low;
Big Kings and Little Kings,
Brown Bears and Black,
All of them waiting
Till John comes back.
Some think that John boy
Is lost in the wood,
Some say he couldn’t be,
Some say he could.
Some think that John boy
Hides on the hill;
Some say he won’t come back,
Some say he will.
High was the sun, when
John went away . . .
Here they’ve been waiting
All through the day;
Big Bears and Little Bears,
White Kings and Black,
All of them waiting
Till John comes back.
Lords of the Nursery
Looked down the hill,
Some saw the sheep-fold,
Some say the mill;
Some saw the roofs
Of the little grey town . . .
And their shadows grew long
As the sun slipt down.
Gold between the poplars
An old moon shows;
Silver up the star-way
The full moon rose;
Silver down the star-way
The old moon crept . . .
And, one by another,
The grey fields slept.
Lords of the Nursery
Their still watch keep . . .
They hear from the sheep-fold
The rustle of sheep.
A young bird twitters
And hides its head;
A little wind suddenly
Breathes, and is dead.
Slowly and slowly
Dawns the new day . . .
What’s become of John boy?
No one can say.
Some think that John boy
Is lost on the hill;
Some say he won’t come back,
Some say he will.
What's become of John boy?
Nothing at all,
He played with his skipping rope,
He played with his ball.
He ran after butterflies,
Blue ones and red;
He did a hundred happy things—
And then went to bed.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A boy And Watchmaker
This watch my father did on me bestow,
A golden one it is, but 'twill not go,
Unless it be at an uncertainty:
But as good none as one to tell a lie.
When 'tis high day my hand will stand at nine;
I think there's no man's watch so bad as mine.
Sometimes 'tis sullen, 'twill not go at all,
And yet 'twas never broke nor had a fall.
Watchmaker.
Your watch, though it be good, through want of skill
May fail to do according to your will.
Suppose the balance, wheels, and springs be good,
And all things else, unless you understood
To manage it, as watches ought to be,
Your watch will still be at uncertainty.
Come, tell me, do you keep it from the dust,
Yea, wind it also duly up you must?
Take heed, too, that you do not strain the spring;
You must be circumspect in every thing,
Or else your watch, were it as good again,
Would not with time and tide you entertain.
Comparison.
This boy an emblem is of a convert,
His watch of the work of grace within his heart,
The watchmaker is Jesus Christ our Lord,
His counsel, the directions of his Word;
Then convert, if thy heart be out of frame,
Of this watchmaker learn to mend the same.
Do not lay ope' thy heart to worldly dust,
Nor let thy graces over-grow with rust,
Be oft' renewed in the' spirit of thy mind,
Or else uncertain thou thy watch wilt find.
poem by John Bunyan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet: Show Me …
Show me a hand that’s scarred by giving alms;
Show me an arm that helped others life-long;
Show me a face of greed that always calms;
Show me a voice tired by divine song.
Show me a foot that’s lame, walking with God;
Show me a tongue pale, speaking holy words;
Show me a soul that fears not God’s just rod;
Show me an eye blind that loves killing birds.
Show me a knee, pained by genuflection;
Show me a soul upright that fears its loss;
Show me body weak by meditation;
Show me a shoulder burdened by Christ’s cross.
Show me a heart gone small, loving brethren;
Show me a mind tired seeking Heaven!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-14-2008
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stack A Lee
Hawlin alley on a dark and drizzly night,
Billy lyons and stack-a-lee had one terrible fight.
All about that john b. stetson hat.
Stack-a-lee walked to the bar-room, and he called for a glass of beer,
Turned around to billy lyons, said, what are you doin here?
Waitin for a train, please bring my woman home.
Stack-a-lee, oh stack-a-lee. please dont take my life.
Got three little children and a-weepin, lovin wife.
Youre a bad man, bad man, stack-a-lee.
God bless your children and Ill take care of your wife.
You stole my john b., now Im bound to take your life.
All about that john b. stetson hat.
Stack-a-lee turned to billy lyons and he shot him right through the head,
Only taking one shot to kill billy lyons dead.
All about that john b. stetson hat.
Sent for the doctor, well the doctor he did come,
Just pointed out stack-a-lee, said, now what have you done?
Youre a bad man, bad man, stack-a-lee.
Six big horses and a rubber-tired hack,
Taking him to the cemetery, buy they failed to bring him back.
All about that john b. stetson hat.
Hawlin alley, thought I heard the bulldogs bark.
It must have been old stack-a-lee stumbling in the dark.
Hes a bad man, gonna land him right back in jail.
High police walked on to stack-a-lee, he was lying fast asleep.
High police walked on to stack-a-lee, and he jumped forty feet.
Hes a bad man, gonna land him right back in jail.
Well they got old stack-a-lee and they laid him right back in jail.
Couldnt get a man around to go stack-a lees bail
All about that john b. stetson hat.
Stack-a-lee turned to the jailer, he said, jailer, I cant sleep.
round my bedside billy lyons began to creep.
All about that john b. stetson hat.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Misty-Eyed Maiden
Oh! Misty-eyed maiden!
Your lovely eyes laden with tears.
You weep for your unborn babes
As when Rachel weepeth for her children.
The hour cometh speedily
When your flowing tears
Will mingle with the dust
And be trampled under many feet.
'Twill be useless to cry then,
For men of great avarice
Doth ascend the thrones
Of this fallen world.
So then, cry on misty-eyed maiden;
Weep your heart out,
For soon 'twill all be over
And that terrible holocaust come!
poem by Enoch John
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Show Me Your Heart
You always ask for flowers and candy, baby,
Never knowing I was your chocolate rose.
You always tell me that you like what Im wearing,
But you think I look better here without any clothes.
Get out of my head. show me your heart.
Get out of my head. show me your heart.
You play a game of attack and surrender.
Always leaving me halfway there.
Well Ive got something that you should remember.
Until you draw blood, baby, nobody cares.
Get out of my head. show me your heart.
Get out of my head. show me your heart.
Sometimes Id swear you were from venus, now, oh.
If I didnt already know your type.
Youd rather tell me youre an angel, darling,
Then show me by floating gracefully by.
Get out of my head. show me your heart.
Get out of my head, oh. and, show me your heart.
Get out, get out, get out of my head.
Yeah, and show me your heart.
Show me your, oh.
Get out of my head. and, show me your heart.
song performed by by Hootie & The Blowfish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: With God’s Help
‘Come to my aid God, ’ whenever I need,
For, without Thee, my life’s vessel could sink;
With Thee, my Lord, I’ll do great things indeed!
Like how with Thine inspiration, I ink.
Prepare me Lord for life’s challenges,
And make me wary, alert, sensible;
And like sore-throat, soothen’d by lozenges,
Soothen my heart with words from the Bible.
Show me Thy unique ways to solve problems;
Let despair not entwine my human heart;
Let flowers new, blossom forth from old-stems,
And let Thine wisdom help me further art.
O use me Lord, for any purpose, God!
In case I fail, do spare me from Thy rod.
8-6-2002
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spots Through the Ages
Romance goes out of everything in these days of ill grace,
And even old John Barleycorn grows 'standardised' apace;
Once henchman of gay gallantry, a kindlier part he played.
Scene: Tavern door. A saucy wench. A merry, ruffling blade.
He stops. She smiles. Arm round her waist. 'Could Eve be more divine?
See, a kiss, my pretty sweetling. Then, I pray, a stoup of wine.'
'Twas in a 'silver' tassie' that Rab Burns pledged his lass
(The current one, 'tis understood). But days grows drab, alas.
Scene: London pub. Tiles. Glittering glass: and there, behind the bar,
A brass-haired goddess, proud, aloof from this meek gutter child.
'A pot o' four-'arf, thank yeh, miss. An' please to dror it ild.'
The scene shifts to Australia, 'where a man can raise a thirst.'
(See Kipling). From 'long-sleevers' now they drained the stuff acurst.
Back of beyond, by Clancy's run they've a had a six months' drought.
Scene: Old bush shanty. Summer. Flies. Six shearers 'cutting out.'
A shirt-sleeved, whiskered barman. Says Bill: 'By gum, it's 'ot!
Breast up, blokes. Name yer gargle. Rybuck, boss; mine's a pot.'
But mass-production now debunks old John, for olden sins;
They've 'synthesised' him, 'standardised' him, soldered him in tins.
Grog goes no more with gallantry, nor wine with poesy.
Scene: Chain store-grocer's. Pickles, clothes-pegs, jam, tinned salmon, tea.
Smug grocer (strict abstainer). enter cove in working duds.
He slings a sprat across the joint: 'Hoy! Gissa tinna suds!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Got That
Shorty! We're gona go 2 the club n get crunk wi Britney
Shorty! She thinks she's fine. Fine enough to blow your mind.
Shorty! She thinks she's bad, get on the floor and shake that ass.
Shorty! She thinks she's fine. Fine enough to blow your mind.
Shorty! She thinks she's bad, get on the floor and shake that ass.
Yeah,
This is for all those southern boys out there
Hehehe
Check this out!
Check this out
I see you lookin' my way
And I know that
You have something to say
Watching every inch of my body
Like you wanted to play
Boom boom boom
Boy you look so sexy
Boom boom boom
Boy you look so sexy
I begin to dance just a little bit
To turn you on
(Yeah, I got that)
I've got that boom boom
That you want
Watching me all night long
Hurry up before its gone
I've got that boom boom
That you want
I don't think you should wait
One minute might be to late
You had caught my eye
And I wanted to get to know you
Don't be shy
I want you to come closer
So what you gonna do?
So here we go
Boom boom boom
Boy you look so sexy
Boom boom boom
Boy you look so sexy
I've got that boom boom
That you want
Watching me all night long
Hurry up before its gone
I've got that boom boom
That you want
I don't think you should wait
One minute might be to late
Shorty
She think she fine
Fine enough to blow your mind
Shorty
She think she bad
Get on the floor and shake that ass
Shorty
She think she fine
Fine enough to blow your mind
Shorty
She think she bad
Get on the floor and shake that ass
Oh
Twill-illy-ee
Twill-illy-ee
Twill-illy-ee
Twill-illy-ee
Twill-illy-ee
Twill-illy-ee
Shorty, get on the floor and shake that ass for me
Twill-illy-ee
Twill-illy-ee
Twill-illy-ee
Twill-illy-ee
Twill-illy-ee
Twill-illy-ee
Shorty, get on the floor and shake that ass for me
She naked
She soaking wet
Strip tease like a mmm
Drip, sweat
She got a little body that I cant forget
I aint met a young lady that outdid her yet
Britney Spears and the Ying Yang Twins
high
When we became friends
Might as well let the party begin
If youre ready then jump on in
Shorty
She think she fine
Fine enough to blow your mind
Shorty
She think she bad
Get on the floor and shake that ass
Shorty
She think she fine
Fine enough to blow your mind
Shorty
She think she bad
Get on the floor and shake that ass
I got that boom
That you want
Watching me all night long
Hurry up before it's gone
I've got that boom boom
That you want
I don't think you should wait
One minute might be to late
I got that boom boom
That you want
Watching me all night long
Hurry up before it's gone
I've got that boom boom
That you want
I don't think you should wait
One minute might be to late
Boom boom boom
Boy you look so sexy
Boom boom boom
Boy you look so sexy
Boom boom boom
Boy you look so sexy
song performed by by Britney Spears
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After The Play
Father
Have you spent the money I gave you to-day?
John
Ay, father I have.
A fourpence on cakes, two pennies that away
To a beggar I gave.
Father
The lake of yellow brimstone boil for you in Hell,
Such lies that you spin.
Tell the truth now, John, ere the falsehood swell,
Say, where have you been?
John
I'll lie no more to you, father, what is the need?
To the Play I went,
With sixpence for a near seat, money's worth indeed,
The best ever spent.
Grief to you, shame or grief, here is the story--
My splendid night!
It was colour, scents, music, a tragic glory,
Fear with delight.
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, title of the tale:
He of that name,
A tall, glum fellow, velvet cloaked, with a shirt of mail,
Two eyes like flame.
All the furies of fate circled round the man,
Maddening his heart,
There was old murder done before play began,
Ay, the ghost took part.
There were grave-diggers delving, they brought up bones,
And with rage and grief
All the players shouted in full, kingly tones,
Grand, passing belief.
Oh, there were ladies there radiant like day,
And changing scenes:
Great sounding words were tossed about like hay
By kings and queens.
How the plot turned about I watched in vain,
Though for grief I cried,
As one and all they faded, poisoned or slain,
In great agony died.
Father, you'll drive me forth never to return,
Doubting me your son--
Father
So I shall, John
John
--but that glory for which I burn
Shall be soon begun.
I shall wear great boots, shall strut and shout,
Keep my locks curled.
The fame of my name shall go ringing about
Over half the world.
Father
Horror that your Prince found, John may you find,
Ever and again
Dying before the house in such torture of mind
As you need not feign.
While they clap and stamp at your nightly fate,
They shall never know
The curse that drags at you, until Hell's gate.
You have heard me. Go!
poem by Robert Graves
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Wilfred
What of these tender feet
That have never toddled yet?
What dances shall they beat,
With what red vintage wet?
In what wild way will they march or stray, by what sly paynims met?
The toil of it none may share;
By yourself must the way be won
Through fervid or frozen air
Till the overland journey's done;
And I would not take, for your own dear sake, one thorn from your track,
my son.
Go forth to your hill and dale,
Yet take in your hand from me
A staff when your footsteps fail,
A weapon if need there be;
'Twill hum in your ear when the foeman's near, athirst for the victory.
In the desert of dusty death
It will point to the hidden spring;
Should you weary and fail for breath,
It will burgeon and branch and swing
Till you sink to sleep in its shadow deep to the sound of its murmuring.
You must face the general foe --
A phantom pale and grim.
If you flinch at his glare, he'll grow
And gather your strength to him;
But your power will rise if you laugh in his eyes and away in a mist
he'll swim.
To your freeborn soul be true --
Fling parchment in the fire;
Men's laws are null for you,
For a word of Love is higher,
And can you do aught, when He rules your thought, but follow your own desire?
You will dread no pinching dearth
In the home where you love to lie,
For your floor will be good brown earth
And your roof the open sky.
There'll be room for all at your festival when the heart-red wine runs high.
Joy to you, joy and strife
And a golden East before,
And the sound of the sea of life
In your ears when you reach the shore,
And a hope that still with as good a will you may fight as you fought of yore.
poem by John Le Gay Brereton
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On A Corkscrew
Though I, alas! a prisoner be,
My trade is prisoners to set free.
No slave his lord's commands obeys
With such insinuating ways.
My genius piercing, sharp, and bright,
Wherein the men of wit delight.
The clergy keep me for their ease,
And turn and wind me as they please.
A new and wondrous art I show
Of raising spirits from below;
In scarlet some, and some in white;
They rise, walk round, yet never fright.
In at each mouth the spirits pass,
Distinctly seen as through a glass:
O'er head and body make a rout,
And drive at last all secrets out;
And still, the more I show my art,
The more they open every heart.
A greater chemist none than I
Who, from materials hard and dry,
Have taught men to extract with skill
More precious juice than from a still.
Although I'm often out of case,
I'm not ashamed to show my face.
Though at the tables of the great
I near the sideboard take my seat;
Yet the plain 'squire, when dinner's done,
Is never pleased till I make one;
He kindly bids me near him stand,
And often takes me by the hand.
I twice a-day a-hunting go;
Nor ever fail to seize my foe;
And when I have him by the poll,
I drag him upwards from his hole;
Though some are of so stubborn kind,
I'm forced to leave a limb behind.
I hourly wait some fatal end;
For I can break, but scorn to bend.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Get Up John
(bill monroe/marty stuart/jerry sullivan)
Well get up john go down to jordan
Get up john prepare the way
Man from galilee is waiting
You must meet him there today
Get up john go tell my people
This will be a holy day
Tell them of the jew thats waiting
That the saviors on the way
John
Even the children
John
Go unafraid
John
Ill go with you
John the baptist
This is the day
Well get up john go tell jerusalem
Saviors waiting on the shore
Baptize him in the river jordan
Ill send a dove from heavens door
John
Even the children
John
Go unafraid
John
Ill go with you
John the baptist
This is the day
Well get up john your work is finished
Daylight breaks the soldiers come
You will die for me tomorrow
Welcome home your race is run
John
Youve been chosen
John
Go unafraid
John
Ill go with you
John the baptist
This is the day
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song Asking God’s Help
Help me God, O help me please;
Of urgent help, I’m in need;
Help me God, O help I plead;
You’re my only friend indeed.
Help me God without delay;
I can’t make both ends to meet;
Help me God in every feat;
You’re my hope, so don’t retreat.
Who else will come to my aid?
In troubles, my heart is laid;
Help me God to see them fade;
You’re the One who helps me wade.
I have faith in You my God;
Send me Lord, a happy mail;
Let my soul always Thee hail;
You must help me without fail.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-3-2006
poem by John Celes
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Waiting At The Window
These are my two drops of rain
Waiting on the window-pane.
I am waiting here to see
Which the winning one will be.
Both of them have different names.
One is John and one is James.
All the best and all the worst
Comes from which of them is first.
James has just begun to ooze.
He's the one I want to lose.
John is waiting to begin.
He's the one I want to win.
James is going slowly on.
Something sort of sticks to John.
John is moving off at last.
James is going pretty fast.
John is rushing down the pane.
James is going slow again.
James has met a sort of smear.
John is getting very near.
Is he going fast enough?
(James has found a piece of fluff.)
John has quickly hurried by.
(James was talking to a fly.)
John is there, and John has won!
Look! I told you! Here's the sun!
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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